The apartment directly across from mine has, over the past few months (hell, who am I kidding, within the first few days) become affectionately known as “The Hostel.” There are perpetually people in and out of the apartment, and there are only a few who can be recognized as regulars. They tend to be a weird brood over there. In addition to all of the people constantly running in and out, there is also a gray cat (whose name is Drago but we prefer to call Gray Cat), that roams the halls, and occasionally our apartment (he’s a quick little guy! and deserving of his own post at some point).
During our first few months in the apartment, Roomie and I noticed the distinct smell of weed. Oh yeah, someone in the building was toking up. After much scrutiny of all of the vents in the apartment, we realized the smell was wafting in under our door. Oh hoh! Someone on our floor was spending time with Mary Jane (yeah, I’m going to use all of the “pot” references I can think of, so just get over it). A few sniffs in the hall confirmed it for us. The smell was coming from The Hostel. Seems they even had a fan blowing the smell out. Our assumption at this point is that the character we’re assuming is the son was trying to blow the reefer out.
Spending months with the occasional contact high, Roomie and I slowly began to notice a new smell emanating from The Hostel. Their apartment, and ours, is slowly turning into Marlboro country. Perfect. It’s one thing when the smoky odor could lead to a pretty strong craving for Cheetos, but when all it does is make me wish that I didn’t live in a bar (of course, not one in New York) I start to lose my patience in the matter.
Then, last night, all hell finally broke loose and The Hostel just became the scene of a bad frat party or a brothel. Yeah, you know the smell. Awkward cologne covering up the scent of smoke. And doing a very poor job of it at that. Come on Hostel, get your shit together.